Chapter IX: The Bishop of Margus

The two sides of that mountain were like the prospect laid out beneath the eyes of man when, in the midst of life, he pauses to survey the past and to scrutinize the future. Dark and gloomy, on the one hand, stretched masses impervious to the eye, wrapped in uncertain mists and vague, undefined confusion, where nothing was known, nothing was sure, but that there lay ruin, chill neglect, and desolation, even unto those regions where the Cimmerian darkness of the grave covered and confounded all. On the other hand, stretching out like the sweet memories that lie along the path of youth, was seen a fair and beautiful land, with the Danube rushing on through the midst towards Margus: valley and hill, fragments of the Dacian forests, but broken by broad cultivated plains, a watch-tower here and there; then, within their guardian line, a farm, a villa, gardens, and pasturages, with the towers and walls of Margus at about eight miles' distance; and beyond, but to the right, the Mons Aureus rising, like a pile of lapis lazuli, in blue majestic splendour to the sky.

Theodore paused to gaze; and feelings, mingled, intense, and even painful, woke in his bosom at the sight of those fair scenes from which he might so soon be driven, contrasted with that dark and gloomy land which might prove his only refuge.

He turned, however, after a moment's silence, to ask the Hun if he could, in truth, prefer the one to the other; but the barbarian had left him without further leave-taking, and his dark form was seen riding rapidly towards the thickest part of the forest. Theodore still remained gazing over the prospect; but, as he did so, he thought he heard a distant shout of many voices rising up from the woods behind him; and, fearful of any interruption in his course, he hurried on upon the road which lay open before him.

Increasing tokens of civilization now met his eye at every step as he proceeded; and shortly before he reached the shore, at the nearest point to the city, he beheld more than one ferryboat, no longer a mere raft, supported by inflated skins, but barks, provided expressly for the purpose, and offering every convenience at which the mature art of the Romans had yet arrived. Without question, the young Roman and his followers were admitted into one of the boats, and in a few minutes were landed on the other side of the Danube, in the midst of all that hurry, bustle, and luxurious activity which marked the precincts of a Roman city, even in a remote province, and in the immediate vicinity of those barbarian allies who were soon destined to overwhelm all those soft and splendid scenes in blood and ashes.

The Roman dress and air of Theodore and his two freedmen enabled them to pass on unquestioned through the gates; where a few soldiers, with their spears cast idly down, their helmets laid aside, and their swords unbraced, sat gaming in the sun, offering a sad but striking picture of the decay of that discipline which had once so speedily won, and had so long preserved, the dominion of the world. Gayly and tunefully carolled the flower-girl, as she tripped along with her basketful of wreaths and garlands for the festal hall or the flowing wine-cup; loudly shouted, with the ready cyathus in his hand, the seller of hot wine in the Thermopolium; eagerly argued the lawyer and the suiter as they hurried along to the tribunal of the duumvir; gayly laughed the boys, as, followed by a slave bearing their books, they hastened homeward from the school. Splendid dresses, fair faces, magnificent shops, and chariots with tires of gold and silver, litters with cushions stuffed with the flowers of the new-blown rose, met the eye of Theodore in every direction; and as he looked on all this luxury and magnificence, and compared it with the scenes he had just quitted, he could not help asking himself, "And is this Margus? Is this the city daily threatened by barbarian enemies? Is this the extreme point of civilization, upon the very verge of woods, and wilds, and hordes of savage Scythians?"

At the end of a wide open space, towards the centre of the town, rose one of those beautiful peristyles--less light, but perhaps more imposing, than the Greek--whereof so many had been constructed under Hadrian. Within it appeared a massy temple, formerly dedicated to Jupiter, but now consecrated to that purer faith destined to remain unsullied through everlasting ages, notwithstanding the faults, the follies, and the vices of some of its ministers.

At the moment that the young Roman entered the forum, the mingled crowd of worshippers was descending the steps of the temple; and above them, between the two central pillars of the portico, clothed in his sacerdotal robes, and with his extended hands giving his blessing to the people, stood a tall and princely form, in which Theodore instantly recognised the Bishop of Margus, the brother of his father.

Dismounting from his horse, the young Roman waited for a moment, until the crowd had in some degree dispersed, and then, ascending the steps towards the door through which his uncle had retired into the church, he asked a presbyter, who was still lingering on the threshold, if he could speak with the bishop.

"You will find him at his dwelling, my son," replied the presbyter: "he has passed through the church, and has gone to his mansion, which lies just behind it."

Theodore took the direction in which the presbyter pointed with his hand; and, followed by Cremera and the other freedman, reached the entrance of a splendid dwelling, round the doors of which stood a crowd of poor clients, waiting for the daily dole of bread and wine. Theodore found some difficulty, however, in obtaining admission to his uncle's presence. "He is gone to divest himself of his sacred robes," one slave replied; "He is busy in private devotion," asserted another; a third plainly refused to admit the stranger, unless previously informed of his name and purpose.

"Tell the bishop," said Theodore, "that it is a Roman from Constantinople, who brings him tidings of his friends, which it much imports him to hear as soon as may be."

There was the accent of command in the young Roman's speech, which made the slave hasten to obey; and in a moment after the curtain, beneath which he had passed in order to communicate the message to the bishop, was drawn back, and Theodore found himself in the presence of his uncle.

The prelate gazed upon him for a moment in silence. It is probable that at first he did not recognise the boy, whom he had not seen for several years, in the young man that now stood before him; and yet that faint and twilight recollection--more like the act of perception than of remembrance--by which old impressions first break upon us, before memory has time distinctly to trace out the particulars, caused the shades of manifold emotions to pass over his countenance, as his eyes remained fixed on the face of his nephew.

"Theodore!" he exclaimed at length, "Theodore! what in the name of Heaven has brought you here at this hour, and under these circumstances? Know you not that the barbarians demand my life to expiate the sins of others? Know you not that they threaten to seek me even here, and sate their vengeance in the blood of my flock, if I be not given up to them? Know you not that the weak emperor, after having faintly refused their horrible demand, now hesitates whether he should yield his innocent subject, and the teacher of his people, to the barbarous hands of his enemies? What was your father thinking of to send you here? unless, indeed, he be bringing six legions to my aid, and you be but the harbinger of the coming succour."

"Alas, my uncle," replied Theodore, mournfully, "no such tidings have I to tell; nevertheless, my tidings are not few nor of little import; but let us speak of them alone. Here there are many ears around us; and you may perchance find it expedient to consider well what I have to say ere you make it public."

As he spoke, he glanced his eye towards the crowd of slaves and officers who filled the other end of the hall in which they stood; and the bishop, who had been moved to indiscretion by the sudden appearance of his nephew, resumed the caution, which, though a bold, ambitious man, formed part of his natural character, and, making a sign with his hand, said merely, "Follow me." As he spoke, he led the way through the great hall to a small room beyond, from which a flight of steps descended to a beautiful garden, laid out in slopes, and adorned with many a statue and many a fountain. The curtain, drawn back between it and the hall, exposed to the view any one who approached on that side, while on the other the terraces lay open to the eye, so that naught with a step less stealthy than that of Time himself could approach unperceived.

"Here, my nephew, here," said the bishop, "our secret words will not pass beyond our own bosoms. Tell me what brings you hither at a moment of such earnest difficulty--at a moment when I know not whether the base emperor may not deliver me up to the barbarian Attila. I who have abandoned all--state, dignity, the paths of ambition and of glory--to devote myself to the service of God and his holy church. Yet tell me, first, how fares your father, how fares my noble brother? Why wrote he not in answer to my letter beseeching him to use his power with Theodosius in my behalf?"

"I come," replied Theodore--who, judging that the bishop's questions regarding Paulinus were but formal words of no deep meaning, proceeded at once to the point on which his uncle's curiosity was really excited--"I come, my uncle, to seek refuge and shelter with you against the anger of a base, weak monarch. Three days' journey behind me is your cousin, Julia Flavia, with her children and my sister. Persecuted by Theodosius for no fault committed, we thought that if we could find shelter in the world it would be with my uncle at Margus."

"Safety at Margus!" cried the prelate, in truth affected by the earnest and pleading tone in which his nephew spoke--"safety at Margus! Oh, Theodore, Theodore! is there safety to be found on board a sinking ship? Is there safety to be found between the opposing spears of two hostile armies met in battle? You come to me at a time when I know not whether the next moment may continue to afford security to myself. You come to me at a moment when my soul is trembling--though not with fear--no, but wavering with uncertain purposes, like a loosened sail quivering in the blast of the tempest, uncertain to which side it may be driven, or whether it may not be torn in fragments from the mast. You come to me in such a moment as this for refuge? But could not your father protect you--my great, my warlike, my courtly, my all-powerful brother, who despised the poor-spirited priest, and thought the robe and stole the refuge of a low ambition? Oh, Paulinus, Paulinus! how I could have loved you! Yet what do I say, Theodore? your dark robe! your untrimmed hair! your jewelless garments! Tell me, boy, tell me, where is your father?"

"Alas," replied Theodore, "I have no father. He who was my father is dead, murdered by the emperor!"

The living lightnings of fierce indignation flashed from the priest's proud eyes; and after pausing for a moment, as if unable to give voice to the feelings that struggled in his breast for utterance, he shook his hand towards the sky, to which his eyes were also raised, exclaiming, "Tyrant, thou hast sealed thy fate!" then, casting himself down upon a couch, he drew his robe over his head, and Theodore could hear him weep. The youth was moved; and at length he took his uncle's hand in his, and pressed his lips upon it, saying, "I knew not that you loved him thus."

"Yes, Theodore, yes!" replied the bishop; "I did love him, better than he knew, better than I knew myself till this very hour. We had different tempers, we chose opposite paths, we held opposite opinions. That which I thought wisdom, he would misname craft; that which I held as just, he would taunt as base. We were both, perhaps, ambitious, but in different ways; and his ambition led him to contemn mine; and yet, Theodore, and yet I loved him better than any other human being. When I strove for eminence in the state which I had chosen, when I raised my voice and made the proud to bow, the sinner to tremble, piety to kindle into enthusiasm, and devotion to reach its highest pitch, my first imagination was what Paulinus would think; my first hope to tower above his low opinion. He was the object and the end of many of my best and greatest actions: almost every thought of my life has had some reference to him. I have disputed, opposed, quarrelled with him--nay, even hated him, and yet belied my own heart by loving him still!"

The bishop paused, and, crossing his arms upon his broad chest, fixed his eyes upon the sky, and remained for several minutes in gloomy silence, as if summoning up before the eye of memory all the visions of the past. "Theodore," he continued at length, speaking in a rambling, musing tone, "Theodore, I will be to you as a father. What my fate may be, I know not; but my brother's murderer shall never deliver me up to the power of the barbarians. Do you mark me? He shall learn that, deprived of the just defence of my sovereign, I can defend myself. But it matters not! You are too young for such counsels! Paulinus, my brother, thou art dead; but thou shalt be avenged. The cup of wrath wanted but one drop to make it overflow, and thy murder has poured an ocean into it. Now tell me, Theodore--the Lady Flavia, where is she? She shall be welcome to Margus. Within these walls my power is unlimited. The people and their magistrates are equally my flock and my servants; so that I can assure a welcome to those who seek it. Where is Flavia? Why came she not with you?"

"Because tidings reached us every day," replied Theodore, "of messengers sent from Constantinople, bearing orders for our arrest--perhaps for our death. Three of these messengers, we learned, had taken the way to Margus; and ere we could venture to trust ourselves here, I came on to see whether the power of my uncle could give us shelter and security."

A smile of bitter meaning gleamed over the countenance of the bishop. "Three messengers!" he said--"three messengers, bearing orders for your arrest or death! No later than yesterday morning, three Byzantines--for so part of their dress bespoke them--were found, slain by the Huns, as it appeared, near Tricornium, higher up the river. Perchance these have been the messengers, and have delivered their just and clement letters to the wrong hands."

"It is not unlikely," replied Theodore. "They must have been near that town early in the morning of yesterday; for I had news of their course, and crossed the Danube lest, with fresh horses, and perhaps a guard from that station, they might overtake and seize me."

"They have been seized themselves," said the prelate, setting his teeth close. "The smiter has been smitten; the messenger of death has found death himself. But how escaped you the Huns yourself, bold youth! For the last month they have made excursions across the river, destroying wherever they came. How was it that you, who without permission entered their own land, passed through them in perfect safety?"

"In truth I know not," replied Theodore, "unless it was that I began by speaking to the ferrymen in the Alan tongue."

"That has saved you," replied the prelate; "but now, my son, we must not lose time. These are days of danger, when the very air is full of winged death. We must not leave the Lady Flavia and her children one moment longer unprotected than is needful. Tell me with what company she travels. Ye were not, I trust, obliged to fly in such haste as to leave all your domestics behind."

"Oh no!" replied Theodore; "the tribune Marcian, who brought us the sad tidings of my father's fate, and warned us of our own danger, took care that all the slaves should accompany us; and saw that all the gold and jewels, either belonging to Flavia, or which my father had left in Illyria, should be borne with us, to escape the greedy hands of Theodosius. Thank God, we have enough to support us with dignity till this storm be blown away, and the sun shines once more."

"Alas, Theodore!" replied the priest, "seldom is it with man that the sun, once clouded, ever shines again. The bosom of nature, torn by the tempest, soon recovers its gayety and its beauty, or, swept by the shower, wakes up again in brighter loveliness; but the heart of man, beaten by the storms of fate, never regains its freshness, but is dulled and withered by every drop that falls, and revives not again till his short day is closed. But I will send out to greet Flavia, and bid her welcome. Glad am I that she brings with her wealth and attendants. Not that I could not myself have supplied her with all she might need; for, thanks be to Him who gave, my worldly wealth is great--greater than is perhaps good for securing the treasure in heaven. Nevertheless, all our wealth may not be more than sufficient for the purpose that I have in view. I will send out to find her, and bring her hither."

"Nay, my uncle," replied Theodore, "I will myself be the messenger. She will not give herself to the guidance of any one if I do not return. I am not weary; and an hour or two of rest would enable me, had I but fresh horses for myself and the freedmen, to seek her at once. This bank of the river, by the death of these messengers, is now free, and the way is shorter."

His uncle made some opposition on the plea of his nephew's youth and yet unconfirmed strength, but that opposition was slight, and soon overcome. There was, indeed, an eagerness, a haste, an impetuosity, in the bishop's whole demeanour, which betokened a keen and ambitious mind struggling with difficulties and dangers which he feared not, but estimated at their true value. He seemed, to the eyes of Theodore, like a skilful swordsman contending with a multitude of enemies, with all his energies awake and active to avoid every blow, to parry every thrust, and to return upon his assailants their strokes with usury.

When at length he consented that his nephew should go, and gave him into the hands of one of the officers, with directions to provide for his repose and refreshment, what was the impression which his uncle's conduct had made upon Theodore's mind? The bishop had been kinder than he expected; he had evinced more affection for his father, more deep love for that dead parent whose memory was enshrined in the heart of Theodore, and revered as the relics of some pure and sainted martyr; he had shown more depth of feeling, and more of the energy of talent, than the youth had been taught to believe he could display; and yet Theodore was not satisfied. The diamond touchstone of a pure and innocent heart, without an analysis, without minute investigation, detected at once the alloy which ran through the seeming gold: he saw that there was much of goodness, he saw that there was much of power, in his uncle's character; but there wanted the simplicity, the mildness, the humility of the Christian priest: there were strong feelings without strong principles, high talents without high honour, and through all his best and brightest qualities ran a vein of brilliant selfishness, stimulating nearly, in appearance, the more precious things with which it mixed; but, oh! how different in intrinsic value.